


Homecoming

by TaleWeaver



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 18:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14243313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaleWeaver/pseuds/TaleWeaver
Summary: Jon should be above accepting guilt-gifts from the Targaryens.  But in this case, it feels like the right fit.





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Written for jonsa-creatives spring challenge day 7: free choice. 
> 
> This was originally written as part of _Just Remember Me When_ , my WIP fusion with the awesome TV show _Veronica Mars_. Basically, this is my attempt to fill in some backstory and history for Jon in this AU. However, after re-reading I realised that with a bit of editing this could stand alone for the challenge, so here ‘tis!
> 
> To get the infodump out the way: for Doylist reasons, I’ve fiddled the ages a bit. Sansa and Jon are both juniors in high school, Robb is several years older and up in the Riverlands serving in the army. Arya and Bran are in middle school. For other Doylist reasons, Catelyn and Ned decided that since he’s stuck in King’s Landing and the Stark name is currently mud, it’s best that she takes Rickon back home to be the Stark in Winterfell. Sansa refused to leave without Ned, Bran had a Very Strong Hunch that Sansa was going to need his particular talents as backup, and Arya… well, she’s just spoiling for an excuse to fight the world, really. Getting some relief from Catelyn’s ideas on how a noble girl should behave is just a bonus. Lyanna survived childbirth, but died about six months previously; she and Jon have spent the last seventeen-odd years without much contact with the Starks, for reasons I hope are fairly clear in-story. 
> 
> This Westeros has a constitutional monarchy, much like modern-day Britain. The Targaryens are in power, with Rhaegar on the throne, but the position of Hand is now an elected Prime Minister. The Small Council still exists, as a sort of elite inner circle of the House of Lords. However, only a blood member of the Seven Families (ie the Lords Paramount of the old Seven Kingdoms) can serve on it. It’s also the only level of government the Monarch has absolute control over – Ned’s been fired as Master of Laws, but he can’t leave King’s Landing until Rhaegar gives permission, and Rhaegar has his own reasons for wanting Ned to stick around.

Jon closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and dug his bare toes into the decadent fur rug. For several moments, he enjoyed the feel of the lush surface against his naked feet, then a sudden thought made his eyes pop back open in alarm.

“Gods, this isn’t an endangered species or anything, is it?”

 Somewhere behind him and off to his left, he heard Rhaenys’ bell-like laugh.  “No, silly, it’s just sheepskin.”  She paused for a moment, then added, “It is from an Atkinson Reach, though.”

“Of course it is,” Jon sighed.  “And naturally, they're all through the house.  How much does this go for in the shops?”

“Depends on the mark-up,” Rhaenys said briskly.  “But you’re not talking me into taking it away, Jon.  I get that you wanted to get rid of the designer furniture – honestly, I always thought it was incredibly out of place in a beach house, too – but I’m not leaving you here alone to live with a lot of rubbish from an Army of the Faith resell store.”

 “Hey, don’t diss the Army store,” Jon told his half-sister, turning to face her.  “They’ve got some great stuff.  Mama once found a two hundred year old desk, refinished it, and sold it to some new money type from the Vale for enough to pay the rent for six months.”

 Rhaenys sucked in a sharp breath, and bit her lip.  Sure signs that she was holding back a rampage on their father’s lapse in duty to him.

 “Rhae… it’s alright.  It really is,” Jon told her gently.  “He’s doing his best for me now.”

 “You should have grown up with me and Aegon,” Rhaenys told him, her voice like flint.  “No matter the scandal.”

 “Gods, no,” Jon grimaced.  “Seriously, Rhae – paparazzi trying to get a picture of me everywhere I go?  Bodyguards surrounding me whenever I step outside? Every moment of my life on display, and waiting to be judged by history?  I’d have gone madder than Aerys the Second before I hit puberty.”

 Rhaenys laughed again, then sobered.  “Honestly, Jon, are you sure this place is going to be enough for you? I mean… it’s just a beach shack Grandmother picked up for a song last century.”

 “Three bedrooms, a study, two and a half baths, four car garage, two balconies, a deck and a strip of private beach?” 

 “Exactly!  I mean, there’s not even proper quarters for a security detail… or a home theatre.”

Jon snickered, “Yeah. I suppose it is quite a comedown from the Red Keep, or the Old Palace of Sunspear.  But at least I have a basement just asking to be turned into a man cave.”

 Or a photography darkroom, a crafting table and sewing machine waiting to be taken out of storage, and a ballet barre.  But that might be too revealing; a bit too close to a public declaration for his Lady.

 “At least you have Ghost,” Rhaenys sighed. 

 Sprawled over the long couch against the wall, Ghost’s ears pricked up and he lifted his head.

“I have no doubts he’s worth at least two guards.”

 Ghost’s eyes narrowed, and a silent huff vibrated across the open-plan living space.

Rhaenys looked over at him and grimaced.  “My apologies, Ghost.  Three guards.”

 Ghost cocked his head, gave Rhaenys a considering look, and laid his head back down on his paws.

 “I’m actually quite good at taking care of myself, you know.  And my Lord Uncle’s still in King’s Landing.”

 Rhaenys muttered, “Don’t get me started on **that** , I don’t know what Father’s thinking… but it’s not like the Starks can claim you, Jon, not without outing you as well.  A Stark nephew your age?  You couldn’t be anyone but Lyanna’s son, and thanks to that arse Robert Baratheon, everyone in the country knows who the father of her child must be.  Your poor mother even had to give up the Stark name and position to keep you hidden.”

 “Snow’s a perfectly nice surname,” Jon replied mildly.  “I think Mama and I have borne it quite well.”

 “You’re the Prince of Dragonstone, Jon, you should have an Ancient name to go with it!”

 Jon frowned.  “I’m no such thing-“

 “Yes, you are,” Rhaenys insisted.

 “I’m a bastard.”

 “That only bars you from the Iron Throne.  That’ll be Aegon’s, and the one who sits the Cradle of Swords can hold no other lands.  I belong to Dorne, because of Mother, and I’ll be formally investitured when I’m twenty-five.  Hidden or not, you’re an acknowledged son of the Blood, Jon, recorded and witnessed.  Which makes Dragonstone yours by right.  Seven Hells, Jon, with that dark and stormy knight thing you’ve got going on, you’re the only one in the family who’s actually fit for the place.”

 “Wait, what?  Dark and stormy knight?”

 Rhaenys shrugged.  “That whole dark, broody, bad boy with a heart of gold thing you do.  You’re like a modern-day Aemon the Dragonknght or something-“

 “Rhaenys!” Jon sputtered.

 “Oh don’t tell me you don’t have a line of girls panting for a ride on your motorcycle – or just a ride on you,” Rhaenys snorted. “And at least this way you know your bloodlines have nothing to do with it.”

 Jon was fairly sure his face was about to burst into flames, he was blushing so fiercely.  Although his lover did really like his motorbike – and she liked the other thing even more…

Rhaenys’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment she rather looked like Ghost on the hunt. “Or is there one girl in particular?”

 Jon couldn’t help it.  He smiled so widely, it felt like his face couldn’t hold it.

 Rhaenys clapped her hands in delight.  “You do have someone!  What’s her name? How did you meet? Are you serious?”

 Jon’s smile widened, if it was possible.  Rhaenys was just about the only person he **could** safely talk to about his Lady… and it would feel so good, to finally let it out.  To be able to say out loud that despite losing his mother, despite not being able to openly claim a single blood relative, that he felt blessed by the Old Gods.

Jon licked his lips, and tucked his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.  “We need to keep our relationship under wraps, Rhae.  She hasn’t even told her family about us.”

 Rhaenys nodded, her face eager with anticipation.

“It’s Sansa.  Sansa Stark.”

 Rhaenys’s eyes widened.  “As in your cousin Sansa?”

 Jon nodded.  With a wry grin, he added, “Guess I inherited at least one Targaryen trait after all.”

 “Ha ha ha,” Rhaenys sneered.  “We haven’t done that since the Restoration, and cousins don’t count anyway."  A devious smile curved her lips, and she continued, "So… will she be making any overnight visits?”

 Jon looked down at the floor, and scuffed one foot along the rug.  “She did all the shopping for my linen closet, especially the bedding.  Said I couldn’t be trusted to get sheets worth sleeping on.”

 Rhaenys giggled, "Smart girl."

 “And she picked out all the furniture for my bedroom.”

 “Well, it’s one way for you to get the Stark name back, at least.”

 “Rhae, we’re only sixteen!” Jon protested. 

 Never mind that he’d already researched matrilineal marriages among the Ancient Names. Or that he’d quietly asked Sam, during his internship at the Citadel last summer, to look into how such a marriage would affect inheritance through the paternal lines.

 A dragon roar sounded from Rhaenys’ belt, and she grimaced as she checked her phone.  “And that’s my cue.  But you really think you’ll do well here?”

 Jon nodded.  “I think I’ll be quite happy.”

 “And don’t think you’re getting out of a long talk about your love life!”

 Jon nodded obediently, safe in the knowledge that Rhaenys wouldn’t be able to organise a break from her security detail for at least two months.  The Targaryens trusted the Kingsguard with their lives, but their scandals were another matter.

 As soon as he closed the door behind his half-sister, Jon checked the clock and realised that if Rhaenys had stayed much longer he wouldn't have had a choice in telling her about Sansa; she was due for their private housewarming celebration any time now. 

 He hustled to the refrigerator and double-checked on the lemon cheesecake that was chilling, before bringing out the dishes of ingredients for the stir-fry he was planning to make for their dinner.  Winterfell had always had domestic staff, and as a result the Starks still in King’s Landing were mostly living on takeout. He fully intended to use his cooking to seduce Sansa into staying overnight.

 Sansa’s knack for timing held true: less than five minutes after his sister left, his lover arrived.

 Sansa had taken out her trademark intricate braid, and left her hair loose and flowing, the way Jon adored seeing it.  She’d topped her usual skinny jeans and motorcycle boots with a beautifully embroidered top that skimmed her figure alluringly, and Jon couldn’t help but feel underdressed in his black T-shirt.

 Leaving her satchel on the island that separated the kitchen from the living area, Sansa immediately moved into his arms for a hug and gently pressed her lips against his.  His breath shuddered out at the contact, and Jon’s mouth opened for her eagerly.  Sansa slid her tongue inside, stroking over his, the tip flicking over his palate in a way that made him moan.  But she kept playing his lips delicately, letting the moment spin out.  She broke off only to trail her mouth down his jaw line, with a gentle nip of her teeth right under his ear, before she brought her lips back to his, deepening the kiss until his mind was spinning.

Gods, what this girl did to him.  Was it any wonder he was hopelessly in love with her?

Jon’s hands slid down Sansa’s back, loving the feel of silk underneath his palms, delighting in the feel of her slim, toned back underneath the silk even more. His hands kept gliding downward to smooth over her arse, caressing and rubbing until Sansa’s body arched against his.

Sansa broke off the kiss, and gasped for breath. Jon reluctantly moved his hands to the small of her back.

"Glad you could make it," he teased gently.

 "So am I," Sansa smiled back. 

 “New top?”

 “I made it myself.  I did a favour for Ms Williams the Home Ec teacher, and she lets me use the sewing machines at lunch.  The embroidery and beading I can manage at home, at least when I have some quiet while Arya’s out causing mayhem.  Do you like it?”

Jon regarded the twilight blue silk, and the beading that shimmered in the fading golden sunlight.

 “It’s… I like the wolf bit.”

 Sansa grinned wickedly.  “It has a zip in each side.  In case you were wondering about how it comes off.”

 “Yes, I was,” Jon admitted shamelessly.  After all, wasn’t clear communication important in healthy relationships?

“Barring some kind of crisis, you have an excellent chance of seeing it for yourself, later,” Sansa told him.  “In other important questions, when's dinner?  I'm starving."

 Jon resisted the urge to make the obvious dirty joke.  "I thought we'd eat on the deck, under the stars.  Maybe half an hour?"

 "Sounds lovely," Sansa replied, before she looked over his shoulder and gasped.   “Wow, look at the sunset – I knew you’d have a great view!”

Slipping from his arms, Sansa headed straight for the floor to ceiling windows that separated the living room from the deck.

 The setting sun gilded her auburn hair, making the copper and golden highlights blaze, and Jon stopped breathing for a long moment.

 “Sansa?  Could I take a picture of you?”

 Sansa looked over her shoulder at him, and smiled.  “If you’d like.  My camera’s in my bag.”

 “When is your camera **not** in your bag?” Jon asked curiously, as he moved to the kitchen island.  He dug through Sansa’s satchel, and carefully lifted out her Nikon, cradling it in both hands.

 Though she had never said the words aloud, Jon knew that Sansa returned his love, even though he couldn’t say for sure what the better proof was - that she shared her body with him, or she let him use her treasured camera.

 As he adjusted the focus, Sansa asked him, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.  Your father offered you that brownstone in the city centre, or even the apartment near school.  Why did you pick this place?”

 Jon snapped several shots, then laid the camera down carefully.

 He turned back to Sansa, and smiled.

 “This was the place that felt most like a home.”

 Because this was the place that looked best with Sansa in it.

 


End file.
